


Resurrection Blues

by WowItsAlmostLikeICare



Series: Hunter Of Men [2]
Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dean Winchester-centric, Gen, I can’t think of a better one, It’s a really pretentious title I know, Slow To Update, Then he’s not, deans dead, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22801051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WowItsAlmostLikeICare/pseuds/WowItsAlmostLikeICare
Summary: Darkness. It was oppressive, crushing down onto him. He—he—he couldn’tbreathe. Pain landed through his arm. There was something around him, closing in. He had to—had to get out. Out. He hammered on the walls surrounding him(it’s getting smaller, smaller, crushing him).Dean's dead. Then he's not. Dean's free. Then he's not.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Bad Luck, Dean Winchester & Hydra, Death & Dean Winchester
Series: Hunter Of Men [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639159
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Resurrection Blues

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic! Aggghhhh! Constructive Criticism would be appreciated!  
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

Darkness. It was oppressive, crushing down onto him. He—he—he couldn’t _breathe_. Pain landed through his arm. There was something around him, closing in. He had to—had to get out. Out. He hammered on the walls surrounding him _(it’s getting smaller, smaller, crushing him_ ).

His hands were sticking, aching, clawing at the tight space enclosing him. Then a crack, a great wrenching, grounding sound. Something hit his face, then more. He kicked and fought, nails scraping, ripping. He was suffocating, he couldn’t breathe. It filled his mouth, covered his face, got into every crack. What was that? He was swimming, choking and then—then—

—a great stuttering breath. He inhaled. Or tried to. He spluttered, choked, gasped. He tasted blood and dirt. And then he knew. His eyes aches. It was so bright, tiny pinpricks of light twinkled in the sky. Where—where—He swallowed. He tried to lift his head to see where—where he was (where was he?) but couldn’t. He was so tired. Darkness enveloped him once more.

* * *

The first thing he felt was warmth. Warmth on his face, gently beating down onto his skin. He peeled his eyes apart, blinking into the light. There was a rasping sound, like sandpaper on rough stones, and to his his horror he realised it was coming from _him._ His throat was dry, his tongue heavy and swollen. His breathing. That horrid, horrid sound rattled in his chest. At each inhale he fought down the urge to cough.

His body protested as he made an attempt to sit up, bones grinding against each other and muscles pulling taught. He drew in another shakier breath and looked around.

He was in a large open field surrounded by trees. Trees which all lay scattered around, their roots pointing towards him, their heads away. By his feet was a mess of soil.

He leaned forward, shifting so that his legs folded underneath him, and looked down. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

Down the hole, mixed in with the soil he could see splinters of wood. Wood from—He let out a small whimper.

“A coffin,” he breathed out. His throat felt on fire just from saying those two words. He could feel his mind come to a screeching halt. He tried to fight back the panic rising up, threatening to swallow him up. Oh God. Oh God. He was—he couldn’t. He heard the rapidly increasing beat of his heart, in his chest. It felt like it was trying to break free.

He pushed up, staggering to his feet as hysterical laughter forced its way out of his mouth. Laughter at him, at this situation. He swayed, black spots appearing across his vision as his apparent weakness was made known. His legs shook and struggled to support his weight but he simply turned and took small, slow steps away from the hole and headed towards the edge of the clearing. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care as long as it took him far from that hole.

He settled into an easy rhythm, passing the overturned trees. Bit by bit the clearing disappeared until he could no longer see it, with trees now growing upright and pointing towards the rapidly darkening sky.

And then all of a sudden he stumbled onto clear tar. A road. He continued his trek, one foot in front of the other even as exhaustion dragged down his body, threatening to make him pass out. He kept on and on, the cool night air brushing against his skin, causing goose bumps to erupt along his arms and legs.

The full moon lit up the road he was taking and he tilted his head up in its direction. Stars shone against the dark of the night sky, little lanterns illuminating his way. He traced the constellations with his eyes and took in a large lungful of air before expelling it slowly. This time when the laughter came, it was that of happiness. He was free. For now.

* * *

It was early morning when he caught sight of a small Shell. He dragged his tired feet towards it. He needed water, his throat clicked with each swallow.

The parking lot around it was completely empty, not a car in sight. He frowned slightly. Why would it be empty? A pang of hunger sent him stumbling forwards towards the stations door before he could think any further about it.

His hands throbbed as he fumbled for the handle. It was locked. He let out a small cry of desperation, slamming hard against the glass. He needed to think. Letting out a shuddering breath he turned his attention back to the lock. Maybe he could…He patted down his pockets, frantically searching for something, anything, that he could use to help him get inside. Inside.

His finger suddenly caught on something, sending a fresh wave of pain lancing up his arm from his hand. He lifted his hand out and looked at what was enclosed in his fist. A pin. A pin! ( _he didn’t stop to think why he had a pin…something about…_ ). He lifted it up, pinching it between his fingers even as they trembled and moved it towards the lock of the door. He cursed letting out a sound that sounded like a sob as he missed the hole again…and again…and again. He let loose a scream of frustration, throat scraping itself raw as he did so. And then…click. The door finally, _finally_ swung open.

He straightened up from his crouch and limped in. The Shell was empty of any signs of life and he walked around cautiously. There were numerous racks filled with packaged snack foods and at the far side he could see dark fridges, empty of the electricity that would normally power them.

He moved forward towards them, opening one up and grabbing a bottle of water. He held it almost reverently and with twist of his hand opened it, flicking the lid away. Then he tilted his head back, put the bottle to his lips and _drank_.

The water was a soothing balm to his sore, dry throat. Blessed relief. He kept on until the bottle was empty, plastic crinkling in his hand and then reached for another. And another. And another. Until four empty bottles lay next to him. He let loose a small sigh and slid down, his back against the glass casing of the fridge.

His stomach was sore and he faintly thought to himself how bad it was that he had downed as much as he had but couldn’t find it within himself to care. He felt oddly detached, lucid even. His thoughts and emotions flitted past him at speeds too fast for his sluggish mind to catch. That was good. It meant that nothing that had happened had really sunk in yet.

With a sigh he slumped all the way down, till he was laying fully down on the ground and pressed his forehead against the cool ground. He closed his eyes slowly before they snapped open a moment later. He couldn’t handle the dark. Not yet. Not when it made him think of—of—He shuddered, teeth clacking together as he ground his jaw, and curled up tightly in a ball, muscles not used in a long time aching in the process. Every part of his body throbbed in a pulsing rhythm, his skin felt stretched—

(— _like butter scraped across too much bread, a laughing voice called, another soon joining it. Of course you’d choose to quote Bilbo at me! You’re insufferable Dean_ —)

He jerked back, his brows furrowed in confusion. _Dean_ the other voice had said. Who was Dean? Was it him? His thoughts meandered onwards, drifting away, mind shying from the subject. He let loose a soft sigh and immediately stilled, body locking and muscles quivering under his sudden tension. Sighing was _bad_. He couldn’t remember why but—there on the edges of his memories, if he just reached he’d be able to see why and—

(— _a cold hand was gripping his jaw, mouth held open with something that tasted of metal and he bit into the soft flesh of his cheek to keep quiet. An oily voice was whispering in his ears, telling him of all the things it would do to him but he wasn’t listening, focused solely on the knife held a millimetre from his open mouth._

_Now Dean, it crooned, what did we say about the noises hmm? This was supposed to be a quiet session but, oh well, if you really want to make some noise then I guess I can arrange that for you. Now open wide sweetheart and let me hear those pretty, pretty screams of yours._

_Then pain was filling him, white hot pain it—it_ —)

—he blinked. His chest was screaming at him. He hadn’t even realised that he had stopped breathing until he suddenly drew in a long gulp of air, his lungs already crying out for more. He tried to prop himself up and slipped. He lifted his hand and saw bloody claw marks from where his nails had pressed into the fleshy underside and gouged deep into his palms. He watched as warm wetness steadily dripped down, running alongside the inside of his arm before making its way in tiny drops down onto the floor.

He felt distant. He knew that it was supposed to hurt, faint memories of pains from broken bones and bruised skin teased his mind, flitting across like small sparrows, darting and weaving across his conscience. His mind and body rebelled.

His mind told him that it should hurt, that by now the palm of his hand should be crying out in pain. Instead his body seemed to refuse to acknowledge this, not allowing himself to feel what it should, not feeling the pain that his mind told him was there.

He could feel himself begin to shake, the shock finally catching up to him. Raising his head he caught sight of a few bottles in the fridge beside him. Dully he noticed that the shudders that wracked his body seemed to make it as though the bottles themselves were shaking. A slightly hysterical laugh escaped him coming out as nothing but a puff of air over dry lips.

He lent back down waiting for the shudders to subside but it only seemed to get worse. He frowned, muscles tensing. A loud crash startled him and he whipped his head to the side, catching sight of several items falling off of their racks. He attempted to stand but fell quickly as more tremors shook the ground. And then he heard something.

It started as a low whine before becoming a steady hum, popping his ears. And then—he clutched at his head as glass started to shatter and a high pitched shrieking filled the store.

Bottles were exploding, products flying off of shelves, all the while the loud, high sounds pierced the air. Now, now he could feel something. And then, as soon as it had never started it all stopped completely. The resounding silence in itself was loud and he drunkenly attempted to stand again.

Something wasn’t right. It went beyond the trashed and littered station. Something in the air didn’t feel right. Or maybe it felt—

He ruthlessly squashed his direction of thought and finally, finally managed to get to his feet. He clutched at the nearest rack to stabilise himself and waited, standing utterly still, for his dizziness to pass. Glass crunched under his feet as he slowly shuffled his way forward. Something was driving him, telling him that he had to get out. And get out now.

Cool air gently brushed against him and he quietly let himself take a deep breath of the crisp outside. The store and its surrounding station had been covered by complete darkness, and he faintly realised that somehow he had been in the store for the whole day. He took a few more steps before he had to stop, muscles screaming for respite. It was frustrating work and he knew, somehow, that _Before_ he had managed much more than what he was doing. Faint impressions of long hours spent running, climbing, _hunting_.

With hunting came half formed images of two figures. One was taller, bigger, broader with whirl storms of emotions accompanying him. Fear, anger, pain. So much pain. And the other…There was love. An overwhelming feeling of love. Love and loss. Because he had lost him somehow, somewhere. He was important, he knew, but he couldn’t quite remember. Why couldn’t he remember? He tilted his head up, as if he could escape his thoughts this way, and gazed at the stars that managed to shine through the fog of light pollution. He must be far out, he mused. Otherwise he wouldn’t be seeing them.

The thought, for some reason sent a fluttering if panic through him which he quickly squashed down. Irritation filled him as he once again stumbled upon some unknown trigger that he seemed to have, without knowing what exactly had caused it.

He let loose a soft sigh that broke the quiet of the still night. He was standing still under the glowing fluorescent lights. They were a beacon in the otherwise pitch black of the Shell and he didn’t want to take a single step away from them.

The darkness…It brought back with it unpleasant half remembered things, faint impressions of cold eye and an even colder expression. Cold hands and a cold mouth. Cold filling him up, every lung full of air searing him, ice digging in and burning. Hands were tugging him down, pulling and pushing and—

He was ripped free from his mind by a loud rumbling sound. He stumbled as he tried to turn in the direction of the sound. Two glowing spotlights fell on him, and he found himself frozen in the glare of headlamps.

There were loud voices shouting around him and the dull throbbing in his head returned to a full crescendo of marching bands. He clutched at it, and the voices became louder along with the clicking of, what he reasoned, guns.

He stilled where he was and instincts telling him that running would be bad, despite a small part of him telling him that he had to get out of here now.

He peered past the lights, hands still on his head, at the dark figures surrounding him. They had moved fast. Too fast for his sluggish mind and even more sluggish body to react.

One of the men in black (part of him sniggered at this. He didn’t know why) broke apart from the main group and stepped forwards, casting a shadow over his face.

The closeness of the figure revealed the cold face of a women with red lips painted on. She barked something at him but he didn’t, couldn’t understand her. She took another step forward and suddenly she was to close. He reacted without thinking.

Hooking his foot behind her leg he pulled it towards him. As he did so he tugged her gun out of her hands and slammed it into her temple. She hit the ground hard. He stood over her, not even panting although his muscles screamed in protest of the movement. He blinked down at the heavy weapon in his hands and lifted it a little higher, trying to ease the strain on his muscles. That was a mistake.

White hot pain flared across his side and his vision blurred. He hadn’t realised his legs had given out until his knees slammed into the unforgiving hard gravel. He whimpered, hands automatically dropping the gun in favour for clutching at his side. Hot liquid trickled in between his fingers and he could feel the growing dampness of his shirt.

There was more shouting but he barely heard it, his head pounded and pain flowed through him. Then there were hands, wrenching his own from his side and pressing down and he could dimly see the cars moving closer to where he had fallen.

Suddenly there were arms under him and then he was being lifted. He struggled blindly, knowing that he had to get out, had to run.

There were more voices, a pinch at his neck, and then? Then there was only darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Anddddd?? How was it? More to come soon!


End file.
